


Ships in the night

by Halja



Category: Attila's Treasure - Stephan Grundy, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Background Curtis/Shiro (Voltron), Blood, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Not Meant To Make Sense, One-Sided Keith/Shiro (Voltron), One-sided Hagan/Waldhari, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Self-Indulgent, Unrequited Love, background waldhari/hildegund, epilogue compliant, the author is just venting out all her feels so take it for whatever it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: A half-alien and a half-... dark elf? Demon? Walk into a bar. They beat each other up and then commiserate over shared issues.





	Ships in the night

**Author's Note:**

> No, the logistics of this crossover/fusion!AU will never be explained or explored. Just pretend the characters from Rhinegold/Attila's Treasure are part of the Voltron universe in this one. Maybe Grimhild fooled around with one of Krolia's co-workers in her youth? Idk.
> 
> Alternatively, take it as something in the vein of a suprisingly unfunny and crossover-y episode of Horrible Histories. Play that axe, Folkhari!
> 
> In the end, I just really wanted to see these adorable idiots discuss their awfully oblivious crushes.

 

 

 

 

It takes a few moments for Keith to start breathing normally again, and a little longer for the pain in his gut and his chest to dull somewhat, but all in all, he’s had worse. Way worse. He slumps against the dirty wall until he’s sitting on the dirty ground next to the guy from the bar.

The guy from the bar doesn’t appear to be out of breath and seems more than tense enough to try to push himself to his feet and attack him again, but Keith knows from experience that really, he can’t be in much better shape than him. He turns to look at Keith and raises a hand to wipe at the blood coating his mouth, dark on his lips in the eerie glow of a lonely streetlight, but he only manages to get his hand dirty as well. Then, his still-red mouth does something that can only be described as _freaky_ , and Keith realizes with a start that he’s smiling, even if it’s mostly just teeth, bright and dangerous in the dim light. «You fight well,» he says in that vaguely guttural accent of his that Keith can’t quite place. His voice is deep and gravelly and emotionless, and so the compliment doesn’t sound particularly flattering, especially coupled with that strange grin. But Keith’s already heard him taunt and threaten, and he can guess that’s not it, not this time. He chooses to take it at face value.

So, he just says: «Thanks. You, too.» Apparently satisfied, the guy is quick to drop the grin, as if it was really as painful to hold as it looked, and relaxes his lips into their previous frown. Keith holds back a sigh, or tries to, because he knows a few people who would be far less impressed with his fighting prowess tonight, if they knew he crawled into a bar, downed as many drinks as he could before things started to blur, and picked some stupid fight with a stranger. What was it even about? Who started it? Was it him? He can’t remember.

Still, it was unexpectedly _good,_ for a bar brawl. The guy was quick and strong and sure on his feet even after having presumably too much to drink, and while Keith’s never seen a style quite like that, he can tell he knew what he was doing and wasn’t just striking blindly. And there was something relentless and wild about him, something savage that called to Keith’s Galra side and its battle-rage, like a siren song that spurred him on and on until his flesh was littered with bruises…

He bit him, at one point. Hard enough to draw blood. Keith punched him in the jaw for that. And then, he punched him again. Because it felt good.

«You know, I don’t usually run around doing… that,» he feels the need to point out. Not because he cares what the guy thinks of him, but for the voices in his head saying things like _problem child_ and _hopeless_ and _well, no wonder._ He’s come so far from those days. He _knows_ he’s come far. And he knows at least one man who wouldn’t let him forget that so easily…

The guy might look offended or skeptical or a mix of the two, it’s hard to tell. His one, stone-gray eye narrows a bit, and he straightens his back against the wall. «Neither do I. Struggling with drunks hardly brings any honor.» He looks at him, unblinking. «But fighting words are fighting words, and they must be answered in kind. And you must be a great warrior, when your mind isn’t so addled.»

There’s a few things Keith could say to that. The first that comes to mind is, _I’m not drunk._ But he knows that wouldn’t sound very convincing, given the circumstances. The second and third ones are, in order, _I kicked your ass, addled mind or not_ and _you were drinking, too._ But those might start another fight, and he’s done for the night. And the last one, _are you human? Completely human?_ might be a tad too blunt.

He does look very much like a human, and a rather handsome one at that, despite his ashy-pale complexion and gloomy face. But Keith, of all people, should know that doesn’t mean much. And then, there’s the way he smiles, and fights, and talks. And the fact that he can go an oddly long time without blinking. But he guesses it’d be rude to point it out.

So, Keith simply replies with: «Yeah, um, I’m sorry for whatever I said.» He honestly doesn’t remember what it was, and has no idea what even counts as _fighting words._ It probably wasn’t anything nice. Though he doubts it wasn’t provoked in any way, but that’s neither here nor there. The guy from the bar does that thing with his mouth again, only smaller and quicker, and actually blinks, and Keith is pretty sure he’s forgiven.

They stay quiet for a while, just breathing and cooling down their aching muscles in the chilly night air. It’s surprisingly peaceful. Well, at least until the alcoholic haze and the adrenaline rush fade enough for the memories and the thoughts and the _feelings_ to come back. Keith’s never been particularly good with feelings. He’d thought he was getting better, lately, but it seems he still has a ways to go.

«Why are you here?» he asks, turning his face towards the poorly-lit street again. More so he doesn’t have to think about why _he_ is there than out of any real interest, admittedly. But could anyone blame him? In that last sentence, _there_ stands for both _slumped against some grimy wall outside some run-down bar with some stranger with his blood on his lips at his side_ and _in the kind of mental state where he doesn’t even really feel like getting up and going someplace better, possibly warm and well-lit and full of his friends and where he actually would be already if not for some lame last-minute excuse about urgent Blade business._

There’s this long, quiet moment when the guy looks like he’s not too keen on sharing his life story with someone he’s kicked in the stomach and who’s shoved him hard against a brick wall not even an hour ago, but right when Keith starts thinking that maybe he should just apologize for that stupid question and point out that that’s none of his business, he says, with something like wariness in his voice: «I have a friend. Had, I imagine. We were… like brothers.» He lowers his gaze to his arms, resting on his bent knees, then briefly turns his right wrist this way and that, like he’s searching for something under the dark fabric of his sleeve, and curls and uncurls his long fingers, pale and delicate under the bruising.

Keith doesn’t want to make any assumptions, but he feels a pang of sympathy in his chest all the same. The guy suddenly looks tired, and sad, and a lot younger than the silver streaks in his long, dark hair and his short, dark beard seem to imply. But maybe he’s just seeing things. Like himself, just to name one.

He can’t help but look at him and ask: «Then, what happened?»

Again, that wary silence. Like he expects Keith to laugh at him, or maybe it’s just too painful to tell. Then, Keith takes a deep breath and says: « _My_ friend got married. One year ago. Tonight is his anniversary, and he invited me to the party.»

The guy stares at him. It’s kind of unnerving, really. Well, more than just _kind of_. But it’s difficult to keep feeling that way about it when he, too, has to breathe and steel himself before he can talk again. «You didn’t go.»

«No.» Keith doesn’t comment on the obvious fact that, well, he’s _there._

«Did you go to the wedding? One year ago.»

Keith snorts and doesn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of it. Even if he feels guilty right after. «I was his best man.»

The guy from the bar smiles and shakes his head, and Keith gets the impression that he’s laughing, in his own way. «He told me he’d be _honored_ if I came to stand by him at the ceremony. I told him I’d scare the guests away, and then I would be like to argue with his priest and the bride would chase me out of church herself,» he says, sobering up so that Keith isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. «But he asked me, and I would have said yes, if I could. But it was too far from home, and my duty wouldn’t let me take on such a long journey. I knew I already had many things to do on that very day.»

«Today,» guesses Keith.

«Today.»

«Of course.» Keith lets out a weary sigh. «I’m happy for him, you know. _He’s_ happy, and that’s all that matters. That’s all I’ve ever really hoped for. His husband is good for him. He makes him smile like he means it _._ »

«Yes. I know.» The other man says that quickly, and very earnestly. Keith doesn’t doubt his words, not even for a second. The guy frowns slightly. His right eyebrow is split in two, a thin scar running from his forehead to dip under his eyepatch. «But you did hope for something else. Something more. Right?»

Keith remembers words ripped from his throat, desperate and thoughtless, scattered in the dark with only a twisted mirror and cold starlight to witness them. He remembers falling, and then, not falling anymore. Safety. One moment to breathe before yet another fight. A connection between them – no, something more than that, something deeper. And at the end of it all, a quiet smile to match his own, and a warm, solid body to hold in his arms. And hope, yes, thin and shaky, crawling up his chest like a weed. «Maybe.» His throat tightens. «He… he’s always been there for me, even when no one else was. When no one else could see any _reason_ to be there.» He stops to breathe. «Is. Always _is._ And I tried to do the same for him. To help him. To keep him safe. And at one point, I thought. But it didn’t, it doesn’t matter.» He’s babbling, and bites his lip to stop. They both have blood in their mouths, now.

Never good with feelings, indeed.

The guy from the bar averts his stony gaze. Perhaps it’s just Keith’s tired ears, but his colorless voice sounds rougher and almost seems to tremble on his next words. «I always knew my friend would marry a woman. I knew he wanted it to be _her_ ever since the day he first looked upon her and I saw what was in his gaze. The only thing I could ever hope for was that he would not drive me from his side, and in truth, he hasn’t. Not yet. Your luck is much worse than mine.»

Keith considers this. «There was always someone else.» Except when there wasn’t. But then, there was never really any time to focus on stuff like that, right? Especially for the two of them.

Yet more silence, but of a different sort than the ones before. This one stretches on and on into the night.

«Say,» begins the guy, and pauses to rest his chin on his crossed arms. He’s still nothing but a stranger, yet doesn’t exactly _feel_ like a stranger anymore. «Your friend never lost a hand, did he?» The words come out slow, carefully spaced. Keith opens his mouth, and closes it when he realizes it’s a joke. A weird one, granted, but a joke nonetheless.

«It was his whole arm, actually,» he answers anyway. Then, it’s the other man’s turn to gape. Even if in his case, it looks more like a slight parting of the lips, coupled with his eye widening a little.

They both laugh, each in their own ways. Although, it’s probably not funny. Not really.

Keith uncrosses his legs, pushes a hand behind his back, and gets on his feet. He turns and offers the man a hand up. «Keith,» he introduces himself. The sky’s growing paler and the air is not getting any warmer. And they both have bruises and cuts that need to be seen to.

The guy stares at his hand like he’s debating with himself whether he should accept it, then clasps it firmly and gets up. He’s tall, perhaps a little taller than Shiro, and his palm is dry and very, very cold. «Hagan.» He looks at him, takes a moment to take him in. «I wish you better luck,» he tells him. And he looks _so_ _young_ again, just for a moment before he lets him go.

Keith kind of wants to say something, but there’s nothing to be said, really. He can only echo his words. He does mean it, though, so he figures it’s okay. «I wish you better luck, too.»

Hagan narrows his eye, then shakes his head a bit, making Keith fight the urge to tell him something stupid like _it’ll be alright, really_ for a moment. «Thank you.» He turns to go, takes a few steps into the dying dark, and turns again to face him. «Don’t take on any more fights, tonight. Drink some water. Sleep, if you can. I don’t believe he’s not like to worry for you, the way you talk about him.»

It’s good advice, so Keith returns that as well. He hopes Hagan is as ready to take it as he is to give it.

«Call him tomorrow, and tell him you’re happy for him,» he calls after his retreating back. «Whatever you’re afraid of… I don’t think he’s just gonna push you away.»

He sees Hagan stop for a moment, like he’s pondering over his words, and then he _thinks_ he sees him nod before he disappears into the last, fleeting shadows of the night.

 

 

 

 


End file.
